


Trigger Stacked

by BlondePomeranian



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-10
Updated: 2016-07-09
Packaged: 2018-07-22 16:01:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7445242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlondePomeranian/pseuds/BlondePomeranian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If hatred was a fire, then Fenris was nothing more than its kindling. Its unwilling kindling, but since when does kindling tell a blaze where to burn? He knew it was no use, for even the fire that burns the sage cannot be trusted, tamed, or controlled… except by the mage that wields it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trigger Stacked

**Author's Note:**

> The following summary, put in layman's terms, also applies: An interpretation and explanation of what the FUCK happened on the romance track after A Bitter Pill.

When Hawke had asked him to accompany her on a mission to the Wounded Coast, he almost wanted to decline. That is, he would have, if he’d had the choice. In truth, Hawke never asked so much as informed.

 Winter tended to dillydally in Kirkwall, just like every other pestilence, and in no other place did it linger longer than in the walls and floors of Fenris’ mansion. Even in the summer months, a blind man might misplace himself at the base of the Anderfels stepping foot onto the stone tiles in the main hall. The walls, on the other hand, more often than lacked warmth in ways a decrepit, abandoned mansion should—and not wholly for lack of insulation and an abundance of shadows.

Fenris never minded the cold silence the mansion commanded as it suited his needs quite well. Light and warmth anywhere but the haven he’d carved out in the old den alerted him of anything amiss. The silence reassured him that he was alone—safe—and if something sounded where it shouldn’t, he could fix that. The mansion afforded him certain necessities he’d been so accustomed to providing, not receiving.

The front door clicked and Fenris, in the process of suiting up for the day, froze. His sword lay only a couple feet from him, but three years in Hightown had taught him patience in reaching for it.

Another click of the door as it shut, and he heard, “Fenris? You there?” It was Hawke, not asking, but informing him, as she didn’t even pause and listen for a response before he heard her walking towards the stairs.

He let out a small exhale and he could have sworn his breath materialized in front of him. Maybe it was colder in here than he thought. “Yes, Hawke.” He called back, buttoning up his tunic. She appeared in his doorways moments later, and—fully clad in her light armor—he already knew the answer, but still asked anyway, “And to what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Ass.” Hawke stated, leaning against the doorway. He could feel her looking him all over, taking him in, so he focused on keeping his fingers from fumbling with the hooks and eyes of his tunic, mostly to keep himself from doing something foolish to let her take in more. “Lots of it needs kicking down at Massive Head Trauma Bay. Would you like to join me?”

“What kind of ass?” Fenris said, reaching for his sword belt. Not asked, but informed. “I was there the other day on the trail of some suspected slavers. I didn’t find any at the time, but I’d happily be wrong if that’s the kind you’re talking about.”

“Not the intended targets, but it’d be a fun little detour, definitely.” Hawke said, then huffed. “No, Aveline’s been getting reports of banditry and whatnot—the usual—and the patrol is so stretched thin with Kirkwall, well, being what it is…”

He gave a little chuckle as he sat on the bed and began fastening his armlets. Hawke followed him over, stopping just at the foot of his bed. “Let me guess,” he said, “you owe Aveline a favor.”

Rolling her eyes, Hawke blew her bangs to one side. They fell back in place as soon as she said, “ _A favor_ implies it’s just the one I owe her…”

Hawke paused. He noticed her smile fading ever so slightly as she looked away, running the backs of her fingers against the wooden bed frame. The warmth in her eyes and the twitch at the corners of her lips… that was all he needed to see to know what lingered just on the edge of saying.

“Speaking of owing…” she began, as if testing the waters for the first time. He couldn’t help but smirk, but let her go on. _Always one to say what’s on her mind, and Maker so help me if I interrupt._

When she raised her head, she looked at him clear as day—he couldn’t escape her stare, even if he wanted to. “You know, it’s been a while since the anniversary of your escape. And every evening since, you’ve still got me wondering… Maybe six years, two weeks, and a day is a good number to celebrate, yeah?”

Every day further from his escape could make for an evening worth celebrating, not that he needed an excuse. It was more a need of an iron will, a clear head, and a firm grasp on his self-control—none of which the mere thought of that evening could afford him, let alone if it were realer than just a thought—that stilled him.

His lyrium markings responded to him whether he wanted them to or not. When he felt those burning, searing pathways flood under his skin, the only way to escape was to let it run its course. Carry out its will of violence. Make it stop. Make it dead. It knew no other way, left him with no other option than to be the vessel of its madness.

_Two weeks and three days, actually,_ he wanted to tell her. Seventeen days, so far, of testing his limits, trying to pinpoint the weakness in the lyrium’s hold, and trying to master his own instinct—all ending in broken wine bottles, holes in the walls, and defeated exhaustion. Every night he thought maybe it would be different with her. He knew her, trusted her. And every morning he woke to the evening’s destruction the darkness had veiled and knew he had been lying to himself. He trusted her, and she trusted him, but it was himself that he couldn’t trust to not push her away from him, forever. Or worse.

Measuring his words, he said, “The numbers are irrelevant; there’s more timing to it than that.”

She put a hand on her hip, cocking her head to one side. “Oh?” Her fingers drummed against her hip. “And what kind of timing is that?”

Though it couldn’t have been louder than the rustle of the fabric she disturbed, the sound filled his mind entirely. Soft, like her voice when she spoke to him, like a comfort he’d never known, and sought out as a dying man clings to life; full, like her—of a grit and optimism that went hand-in-hand, of a light that refused to go out, and of enough to fill the emptiness in him he’d mistaken for a void. What he wouldn’t give just to feel her fingers against his, and know that he’d be alright.

That something so natural to her had to be so carefully managed, learned, and approached in him… No, he couldn’t be so selfish.

 “Something that… needs more time.” Fenris said, rougher than he intended. He stood up and strode past her, grabbing for his sword and whetstone. “I’ll meet you in the Gallows once you’ve gathered everyone to depart.”

“Whatever you need, then. See you later,” he heard Hawke say, before the sound of her footsteps carried her to the door, and the mansion became quiet once again with the click of the door.

He closed his eyes and felt a growl rising in his throat. Burning, he could feel the lyrium waking under his skin. With a flash of blue light, Fenris snarled and slammed the whetstone into the stone floor, cleaving the tool and making a spider web of cracks along the stone floor to match the walls. Another sign of his failure, of that which he could never overcome.

He took his head in his hands and waited for the blaze to die down to embers. Even in the midst of pyre behind his eyes, he still saw his breath writing its uneven, fragmented pulses in the cold, cold air inside the empty mansion.


End file.
